


Basements and Attics

by seakey



Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-07 13:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21217193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seakey/pseuds/seakey
Summary: At lunchtime that day, I was looking at Cary Retlin — framed by cardboard boxes, seated under a ludicrously ineffective lamp that made his hair look all ghostly and stupid — and I wondered.





	Basements and Attics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).

> Your letter made go on a Cary readathon, and that was too fun! Thank you. :D This is a _Kristy Power_-induced delirium.

**Fall**

At lunchtime that day, I was looking at Cary Retlin — framed by cardboard boxes, seated under a ludicrously ineffective lamp that made his hair look all ghostly and stupid — and I wondered. I wondered about the puddle I’d just stepped into (_what _ was that?), about the unlocked doors and the cafeteria somewhere above us. I wondered about what Cary would say and about how I would react. “Why, Kristy, come in and I’ll fetch the tea!” or “What’s _ happening _to this neighborhood?” or “So tell me about this wonderful new encyclopedia set” or whatever, mock grin, mock frown, the works. Maybe he would say something really, really maddening without even taking his eyes off the book in his lap, and I’d need to have a line ready to go. To the point (whatever the point was)! Sharp! A little terrifying!

He was pretty quiet.

Hmm.

A few more steps. My shadow seemed kind of wicked on the wall behind Cary.

“Hey,” I said, wishing I sounded kind of wicked instead of kind of foolish.

He looked up. One of his eyebrows did a subdued version of the thing it was always doing.

“Hey there,” he said.

So I went right across the room and sat in this maybe-brown armchair.

Maybe I should’ve said, _ Pretend I’m not here _ (nonsensical). Or, _ You don’t own the school basement _ (weirdly combative, so fitting for me and Cary). Or, _ It’s nothing_. Or, _ It’s boring. _And I would’ve been honest then, because whatever it was, it was boring. And when you're used to thinking of yourself as a resourceful leader with much to offer the world, being bored by your own brain is a true blow to the self-esteem.

It was like this:

A couple weeks into high school.

A part of me had died, but that was all right. Why? You see, summer had been all kinds of fun. My close friends were as close as ever, pretty much. I had the Krushers, and my own athletic future was really exciting. And, naturally, I still baby-sat. So there weren’t many BSC meetings or BSC projects, but that was okay, and when it had not been okay (it was okay now), my friends had been kind (but not sappy) and reassuring (in a realistic manner) and mature (not condescendingly so), and soon it was okay because that’s just how it works. Things changed, some people got upset, some people got seriously upset, and then everybody got over it. Very straightforward.

Sometimes I felt weird, though.

Like how I did that day. I couldn’t even tell you why, but the things-have-changed feeling was there all morning. I went from class to class in a hazy mood, and then I was about to get into the lunch line, aware that I was soon going to be with Mary Anne and maybe Abby and possibly Stacey or Claudia (hey, I wasn't offended by anyone who was excited about new acquaintances!) and definitely a bunch of other people, cool people who would make new cool pals. That’s when I spotted Cary. He was standing close to the door, hands deep in pockets, staring at the ceiling, and — I’m not kidding — whistling. Nobody had ever done a worse job at looking casual. It was totally outrageous, and yet no one else appeared to be curious.

Cary’s glance drifted downward. For a second, we were looking right at each other. That was when he left.

Slowly.

I followed him.

Slowly.

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I didn’t think it was a trap. He was always a lot more subtle than that.

Or maybe the obviousness was part of the joke. Like, haha, that Kristy is so nosy she’ll even willingly get herself entangled in what is some sort of beyond-a-doubt gag. She just can't resist! But I was already aware of my nosiness (although my chosen term would’ve been “a go-getting attitude” or what have you), so that wouldn’t have been the height of wit. Not that I was expecting the height of wit from Cary.

Anyhow, anyway, my first visit to the SHS underground!

And there we were.

“Did you know,” Cary said as he looked at the book again, “that one of the most spellbinding voices of 19th-century American horror was born, raised, and buried in Stoneybrook?”

“Yes!"

Too eager, but hey, don’t you love having the answers to a pop quiz?

“Really?” His eyes on me now.

“Um, my stepdad gets the Historical Society newsletters.”

(I knew Karen and I had recently used that one for a collage of hers — she'd cut out the HORROR part and the “before” picture of a restored cottage — but I wasn’t gonna tell Cary I only remembered that stuff for scissors-and-glue reasons. Not that it was embarrassing or anything, but it _did_ seem like a funny thing to add.)

“I haven’t actually read the book, though.” And it wasn't on my list, let's be frank. I’m not exactly a passionate follower of the Stoneybrook Historical Society Press releases. “How’s it?”

“Well, the foreword’s very thorough. I know a _ lot _about her great-uncle’s shoe business now.” He was leafing through the pages. “I was about to start the first story.”

“Oh, uh, go ahead.” And I remembered something. “Pretend I’m not here.”

“Now, what’s the fun in that?”

Eyebrow, smirk. I smiled back, and I didn’t know what we were doing but I didn’t think it was bad.

You know who’s a great reader? Mary Anne. Her interpretation of _The Little Engine That Could _is a knockout classic. What I mean is that my standards are high, and obviously Cary couldn’t be that amazing. Hey, _I’m _not that amazing (although I've been informed that I have a gift for funny voices). But I liked listening to him. In the tale, the protagonist was trying to find someone who was probably buried in a chest. She was always going down and up the stairs, and in her dreams she always knew there was something wrong with this vase in Mr. Towers’ drawing room. There was this part that went _IT—WAS—_**_THE_**—**_VASE_**_! _that made me burst out laughing, and Cary gave me a Look but it wasn’t too convincing. I liked the bag of Chips Ahoy he offered me before the story (I’m not keen on eating Cary’s food, but hey, it was unopened. I checked the expiration date, though). I even kinda liked my smelly chair.

**Winter**

Those were fairly eventful days. Mary Anne, still in search of her post-fire, post-Logan self, took tap dancing. Abby went along to support that rare sweating effort, and got seriously into it herself. I found out the (then) principal’s dark secret during my brief stint for the school paper, and that got me on the local news (I wore my visor the day they came to shoot the interview). Claudia’s future employer, the Ice Cream Queen, moved to Stoneybrook (more on that later).

And there was that time when Stacey was at Claudia’s and saw these very interesting papers on the kitchen counter, which were soon taken away by a harried Janine. And while Claudia was taking a shower, Stacey knocked on Janine’s door. They talked for so long that Claudia got out of the bathroom and witnessed whatever was happening — whispers, knowing nods, formulas on the computer screen, and a general air of satisfaction that Claudia found profoundly unsettling. They seemed embarrassed to be caught mid-conversation (Claudia had cleared her throat), and some vague explanation about very interesting math problems was produced. Later, at Stacey's mom's boutique, Claudia prodded Stacey a bit. Stacey said, “Your sister has very interesting ideas” and that, said Claudia later (we wrote a journal about the experience! It will be available to the public after all of us die), was when she realized we were in trouble. Now, I don’t want to doubt a friend’s prophetical moment, but I think that by “trouble” Claudia really meant “Oh, my lord, it’s not gonna be the last time I see my genius sister and my best friend talking,” not “Oh, my lord, my genius sister and my best friend (who happens to be pretty smart about numbers) are gonna start working on a project to build something and that something is gonna be confiscated by secret agents on Valentine's Day."

Meanwhile, Cary Retlin was/wasn’t there. He turned corners, made plans, was annoying, was less annoying, was the worst. One time, I opened my locker and was greeted by a ‘70s hit. One I’d picked up as a warmup soundtrack, back when Cary and I had been selected to teach a gym class together. To be honest, It took a while for me to figure out that connection. At first, I freaked out and shut the locker pretty quickly. Then I opened it again, listened to the first verse, shut it. Then I opened it again, tried to find the book I needed, tried to stop the song, was unsuccessful (how?!), shut it. Then I opened it again, disconnected cables, removed a pair of mini speakers, turned off an old tape recorder. The song went on. For an instant, I wondered if I’d been cursed or something — was anybody else even hearing it? — but a look around confirmed that, yeah, people were hearing it, laughing and/or puzzled about it. Then I shut the locker, but now the music no longer stopped when I did that (on the one hand, I’d managed to break something; on the other hand, the muffled version sounded pretty demonic), opened the locker, which made the song restart (why???), realized I was gonna kill someone if I heard the words “Jeremiah was a bullfrog” again that morning, gave up, went to my biology class, and found all my books in a pile on the teacher’s desk.

**Spring**

The Ice Cream Clan consisted of father (rarely seen), mother (often seen), son (unfortunately seen), and daughter (who?). They had moved here months after school had started. Their house had this new façade that resembled castle turrets and a banana split. It was all totally fascinating for us, of course. When it was no longer too cold, Claudia even started thinking about painting the place. And it was during a sketching session outside the gates that she met the Ice Cream Queen. First, Claudia was afraid that the woman was offended (it wasn’t like she was trespassing or anything, but she might’ve asked for permission to draw private property beforehand), and then it was clear that wasn’t the case. The Ice Cream Queen thought the sketches were neat, but most of all she was interested in Claudia’s clothes. And that’s how Claudia became a personal stylist!

That’s also how we got access to the Ice Cream World. The older kid, Ivor, was a junior. Even from the only occasional glimpses, he seemed loud and obnoxious. And yet... we _ had _ been curious about his parties. They were, by all accounts, serious business. I’m not even a gathering-at-strangers’ person, but I figured I could have a lot of ice cream and leave before my schoolmates started making out on coffee tables. And maybe, okay, maybe I could find a mystery somewhere. Decadency, mystery, an obvious combination.

So there I was with everybody (diabetes- and allergy-friendly snacks available) when this little girl approached me (I confess I felt proud of my so-obviously-trustworthy-and-competent presence, even if that wasn’t the point) and said her cat was missing. Her name (the girl’s, I mean) was Clara, and guess what, she was the enigmatic Ice Cream Princess! And she should’ve been in bed, but it was good she wasn’t or nobody would’ve noticed the cat was gone until the next day. So we asked the important questions, and soon I was standing on a couch, speaking through a purple megaphone Clara had handed me.

I described the missing, showed a blurry photograph, divided the teams, defined the locations, distributed the flashlights, etc. Then I climbed down and told Clara everything was going to be okay, and would she like to go to her room and rest? She wouldn’t, and off she went with Mary Anne’s group, Mary Anne telling her about the time Tigger disappeared and how it had all ended happily.

I went outside. There were people checking the yard, the pool area, the pool house. And there was… Cary. Going toward this patch of woods. Definitely not with his assigned team. No light.

Now, you might be wondering why Cary was there to begin with. Well, Claudia had invited all of us in the BSC-and-former-BSC crowd (the ones currently in Stoneybrook, anyway), three girls I didn’t know well, one I’d never seen before, _ and _Alan Gray. Alan had invited Cary.

Thinking about it now, I don’t think Claudia was strictly following party etiquette with all those invitations. But hey, we turned out to be a useful crowd!

I told myself I wasn’t gonna be responsible for anyone recklessly falling into a ditch or whatever, so I joined Cary.

We walked in silence for a while.

Then I said something that might sound strange to you, but I promise I’ll explain it in a minute, okay?

“You know,” I said. “I’m pretty good at solving problems.”

Weak opening. But before he could reply, I continued.

"So let’s say _ you _ have a problem. Any kind of problem. Well, I’d be glad to be of assistance. I mean, really glad, because, you see, I just love solving problems. You’d be doing me a favor. Okay, that isn’t your favorite thing in the world, so forget about that part. Anyway. Problems! I have a lot of experience in a lot of areas. Baby-sitting, of course, and that includes the ins and outs of business. Sports, both playing and coaching. Fundraising. Historical research. Competitive debating, kidnappers. Movie sets. Cruises, speedboats. Mall security. Lots and lots of other things. And, hm. Emotional problems, too, I guess.” Sorry, I wasn’t about to elaborate. "So, what I mean is, come to me with a problem, and I’m sure, I’m _ positive _we’ll find a solution.” I thought the “we” was a nice touch. Not too conceited. A shining picture of cooperation.

At some point during that, Cary had slowed down, so I couldn’t see his face. I wasn’t even sure he was behind me. Maybe I was talking to the night? Maybe I’d turn around and see a confused stranger? Maybe Cary wasn’t listening, too focused on finding a ditch to push me into?

“Thank you,” he said.

He was there!

He sounded odd, though.

I kept walking, pointing the flashlight here and there.

“Uh,” he said. “Thanks, really, Kristy. That was… touching. May I ask you something?”

“Sure, sure. Shoot.”

“Has anything in particular brought that up? Have I been looking, ah, troubled lately?”

That would’ve been perfectly acceptable by itself, but the thing is, he was smirking! I could feel it in the air. He thought the whole thing was hilarious!

So, while I was there fuming, on to that promised explanation.

Earlier at the party. I’d just finished a Coke float. We were in a corner in the living room, and I think we were having a conversation about the ethics of exploring the house. Claudia had been there before, of course, but she’d been thinking about work and the new pieces she’d selected and her employer’s renovation plans for the closet and all that.

Somehow. my gaze found Cary. He was leaning against a wall, holding an empty ice cream dish. Alan was next to him, talking, talking, and there were some other boys around, classmates of ours who were certainly not Ivor’s friends. Had we invited half of the guests?

And then Cary’s look became… distant. He was no longer paying attention to the discussion. I wasn’t paying attention to our discussion, either.

I thought about a bunch of things. Things I’d thought about before, maybe, without really noticing I was thinking about them. Does that make sense?

I thought, what if Cary has problems? I mean, he _ is _a problem, but you know what I’m getting at, right? What if he had these serious issues? All of us do, one time or another. Then what? Was Cary going to tell his problems to Alan Gray? My Alan views had somewhat softened, but still, would you be truly comfortable having a heart to heart with that guy? Even if you were kind of, well, kind of an oddball like Cary. You’d still have standards.

I thought about Cary’s writing. The writing I’d seen while we were doing that biography project together, the writing that I had imagined to be a confession, but which was fiction. Supposedly. Cary had told me there was some real-life influence, hadn’t he? The passage had been about someone who’d recently moved towns (just like Cary had recently moved from Illinois!), who’d been expelled from their previous school after their hacking activities were revealed. Well, Cary liked computers. Once he'd challenged the BSC to a mystery war, and one of the clues he gave us demanded some programming on his part.

Also, I saw him using the computer in the school library all the time. Sure, I’d only been able to take a good look at the screen once, and what was being displayed there looked quite a lot like a birdwatching message board. Hey, you couldn’t expect him to go on hacking frenzies in public, right? What did hacking look like, anyway? Maybe it could look like a birdwatching message board. (I should email Mallory. She’s into this computer stuff.)

_So_, who was going to hear about Cary’s hacking problems? I knew Mary Anne was fond of him, but would he willingly involve her in a dialogue about crime? He appeared to be protective of her, and that’s not the type of feeling that induces you to make dangerous revelations.

And I thought, good grief, what is it about Cary that makes me go nuts? Why was I thinking about hacking? His issues probably weren’t about that! Do people brood about hacking at parties (hacking, even hacking problems, looked scandalously gleeful in my imagination)? No. His issues were probably about something I could help with!

I thought about all of that, more or less, and pretty quickly, too (“why do I want to help Cary” would’ve taken longer). And then I thought of following Cary’s faraway glance. He was looking at a window, and through it we could see these unexplainably shirtless guys spreading caramel sauce around their nipples. Gee. I looked at Cary again. In a funny way, I was certain his expression hadn’t _actually_ changed, and yet he didn’t look forlorn to me anymore. Just slightly amused.

(You know what that’s called? The Kuleshov effect. I only found about it much later, though.)

Still, my point stood.

Back to the conversation in the woods.

I was annoyed, trying to think of a really mean answer, _ feeling _the smirk.

There was a meow.

We looked up. The cat! Or a cat! In a tree.

The cat was rescued, the party ended, and the rumors were true: every guest received an ice cream cup.

The next day was Sunday. I did some homework. Abby said she was going to a music program (“and then something fun, I hope”) with Anna and their mother, After that, I suddenly felt lazy, lazy, lazy, and decided I was vaguely, fondly satisfied with whatever my other friends might be doing then, not feeling the urge to inquire or participate.

That evening, my mom and Watson went out (they asked if I had plans and I said nope, go ahead, you guys). Nannie went out (she asked the same thing even though she’d heard what I told mom and Watson, which was considerate, but I hadn’t changed my plans about having no plans). And Sam had been out for hours. I had dinner with David Michael and Emily Michelle (Karen and Andrew weren’t around then), and both thought that my saying things like “so, Emily, what about those auctions?” and “no, really, David Michael, I just NEED some investment advice, please” was really funny. Okay, Emily’s three, therefore easily entertained, but it still made me happy.

David Michael had been to the Papadakises’ that afternoon, and whatever they did must’ve been tiring. He was asleep before his bedtime.

Then I was alone.

The phone rang while I was on the couch watching TV. I only had to move a little to reach it.

“Hello?”

“I have a problem, ma’am.”

I muted the TV.

“What?”

“P-ro-"

“Cary?”

“Kristy.”

I made a face. I bet it was great.

I knew Cary wasn’t gonna say anything else because he’s terrible and all that, so I just asked what he wanted. Then I interrupted him and asked if he was joking. I said I was busy (haha).

“I’m not joking.”

He sounded reasonably serious. Which didn’t mean anything, but I decided to be polite and give it a go.

“Okay. So, what’s your problem?”

"I’m bored.”

“Cary!”

“What? It’s a problem. You can’t say it isn’t.”

I bit my lip, felt ridiculous.

“I’m bored, too,” I said, finally.

“Weren’t you busy?”

“I’m bored _ and _busy. I see you don’t understand much about, um, duty.”

“Well, let’s talk about that, then.”

“What? Duty? You not understanding things?”

“Look, I don’t wanna be the person who’s rude to helpline workers, but aren’t you the problem-solver here? Why should I give you material?”

Augh.

“How was your day?” I asked.

“Boring,” he said.

“Have you eaten your ice cream already?”

“Most of it. What flavor did you pick? I got coffee.”

“Gross. Wait, we could pick? I just took the one they gave to me.”

“Oh, Kristy, Kristy, Kristy. We found the cat. Yes, you could pick a flavor.”

“That’s not how it works,” I said. And then I smiled because I’d thought of a story he was gonna find interesting. “Do you know about Dawn and the Livingstons?”

There was no reason for him to, but, you know, Cary.

“Is that a book?”

“No-o. Dawn, Mary Anne’s stepsister? You’ve met her.”

“And the Livingstons?”

I started a search for the coziest position while telling him about the Livingstons, and had achieved that (three cushions involved) by the time we really got into the story. It was about the time Dawn had come here for the summer and baby-sat for this super rich family. Other members (including me) had also taken a job in the house, but she was the one who went there the most. Back then, Mr. Livingston had just died, and he'd left these clues for his grown-up daughters to piece together — otherwise, no inheritance. Naturally, that puzzle aspect was appealing to Cary, but when he asked more about it, I pretended not to remember the clues. Because… well, because they were ridiculously easy (a fact the BSC only grasped some time later) and I wasn’t gonna let him realize that. Anyway, the point was that Dawn solved the mystery. And the Livingstons gave her a jokey t-shirt that said _I HELPED SOLVE THE MYSTERY_. And Dawn was happy about it! And we were happy when we heard about it! And it was only much, much later, when Dawn was once again in Stoneybrook and we were all in a reminiscing mood, that Stacey said, “wait, did they really only give you a t-shirt?” She’d assumed there had been vintage earrings on the side or something. And then we laughed about it.

Okay, I told Cary that we laughed about it because that sounded edifying. Actually, we had a long discussion about rewards given by clients. Sides were taken, lines were drawn, “Of course the kids are the ones who really matter” (nods) was feebly repeated. “I mean, we aren’t doing any of this hoping for prizes,” more nodding, and “Of course, but you gotta admit…” It was a bit mercenary. But all in good fun!

It was fun now, too. Cary said it was a horrible story, and that we should visit the Livingstons while they were out and vandalize the place and I said “no!!!!!” while laughing so much that I forced myself to remember the children asleep upstairs.

“Well. You did it, Kristy Thomas. You solved the problem,” he said after a good-humored pause. “Is that free, by the by?”

“For now.”

“Terrific.”

Another pause. Different style.

“Listen,” he said. “I didn’t want to make fun of you last night. I meant it when I said thanks. Thanks.”

“Oh,” I said. “Um, you’re welcome. And I meant it, too. I suppose it was a little out of nowhere, though. You had the right to be confused.”

“It was. And I was.”

“Yeah.”

“So. You don’t suspect me of anything?”

“What?”

“To be honest, a part of me did wonder if you wanted me to make a confession. And it pains me to say, but I couldn’t even remember if there _ was _some local mischief going on.”

“Oh. No. I mean, you’re generally suspicious, but it wasn’t about that kind of stuff.”

And it wasn’t. In truth, it didn’t have anything to do my wild ideas about Cary’s hypothetical hacking. I guess I just had wanted to say I was… there… for him? I remembered that time down in the basement, and I knew it meant something. Something like Cary being… there… for me, kinda. In a way. At least in a my-archenemy-shouldn’t-go-around-looking-pathetic sense. We weren’t gonna talk about it, though. So we said goodbye and hung up, all on amicable terms, and the TV remained on mute.

Cary did start bringing his problems to me. A typical scene:

_SCHOOL_

_KRISTY leaves the bathroom, runs right into CARY, who doesn’t come across as embarrassed about standing outside such a place._

_CARY: My favorite TV show was cancelled three years ago._

Or

_SCHOOL FIELD_

_It's softball practice time and KRISTY is being brilliant. She sees CARY on the bleachers, and cautiously approaches him during a break._

_CARY: Good game. Our kitchen has a leaky faucet._

(I knew how to deal with that one! He was impressed with the offer, but said his mother had already made an appointment with the plumber. I told him not to waste my time.)

Once, as I was leaving school, Cary appeared right next to me on the way to the bus stop.

“Want to study for the history test?”

Joint academic efforts weren’t our style, but that didn’t faze me.

“Sure,” I said. “That’s what I was gonna do, anyway. Has to be at my place, though. Keeping an eye on the kids.”

He shrugged and came along.

Nannie was almost out of the door when we arrived, but it turned out that my baby-sitting wasn’t urgently needed. Watson had decided to work from home that day, and seemed to be finished with that. He was helping David Michael with a model town, and Emily was intrigued by the project. So Cary and I had a snack. I excused myself while he was still eating so I could check the state of my room (dirty socks on the floor) and do something about it (dirty socks under the bed), came back, and up we went.

The next half hour was disturbingly normal. The half hour after that was still pretty normal, but by then I was used to it.

It started to rain.

Then we got distracted by a framed newspaper article I have on one my walls. The headline says _ SNOWBOUND! _ And under that, _ By Kristy Thomas_. Cary was familiar with it — he’d found that issue when we were working on the biography assignment and looking for sources — but he was still interested in hearing more about the matter. Who wouldn’t? So I told him about the blizzard, about the letter to the editor of the _ Stoneybrook News _ in which I offered our exciting tale, about how I tried to add this P.P.S. advertising the BSC and was told to erase it because that wasn’t relevant to the topic or something, and how I reluctantly gave up on that business opportunity. Cary laughed. I enjoyed that. It wasn’t mean or patronizing. And I know this is gonna come across as ridiculous, but to me it sounded like more than a this-is-funny laugh. It sounded… well, fond.

There had been a lot of material for that article, and most of it hadn’t made into the final version. In the paper, Bart — who was compelled by the storm to stay the night at my house, who’d been my date for the Winter Wonderland Dance the day after that — was Bart, a friend, and not also Bart, a crush, a boyfriend, a sort of boyfriend. When I related the events to Cary, Bart’s role remained vague. It wasn’t that kind of conversation. Then I tried to imagine having a conversation like _ that _with Cary. Horrifying.

Cary told me a blizzard story, too. He was nine, and he didn’t fall asleep until morning. His bed was right by the window. He just stared and stared at the snow. He thought about the Yeti. And aliens. He found a notebook, wrote some of that down, right there in the dark (he shared a room with his brothers back then), and scared himself. Then, he looked outside again, and a woman in black —

“Oh, come on,” I said.

“Ssh,” he said.

The woman in black was standing right across the street, and she was looking at him. Really looking. Then he blinked, and the woman —

“Was gone,” I said.

“Nope,” he said.

“Okay, then what?”

“Oh, we just kept looking at each other.”

“And then what?”

"_And then what? _She was gone, of course. Are you new to that kind of thing?”

David Michael came running through the door, then, and said that Nannie (back, apparently) wanted to know if “my friend” was staying for dinner. I noticed the time. Cary was surprised, too, and got up quickly. He needed to go, he said, and thanked David Michael, and once downstairs he thanked Nannie, and shook hands with Emily (who was carrying an old briefcase around). Watson wasn’t there. I walked with Cary to the front porch, and then he stopped.

“You know the rules, don’t you?” he asked.

“All of them. Which ones in specific?"

“Next time, you’re the one who tells the ghost story.”

Next time?

“Oh. See, I’m not sure your terrible story should get you anything in exchange, but, hmm, let me think about that. Wait, I know! You haven’t been to our attic, right?”

“It’s where I drink my Ovaltine after burglarizing your house.”

“Haha. Okay. So, for the ghost thing, let’s go to the attic next time.”

Now, I don’t mean to boast (it’s just the truth), but I’ve had plenty of bold moments in my life. Courage and quick thinking are essential elements in my baby-sitting, my sleuthing, the very manner I conduct business, etc, etc. And, okay, sometimes I can be a little inappropriate. And, fine, I’m really only saying that last part because when I go on my not-boasting for too long, this picture of former and current BSC members usually comes to mind. They’re floating heads, each one's expression slightly… critical. So, there. As Abby has once said to me, quoting some old tune she’s into, I can be “much too much and just too very very” (which, if you ask me, doesn’t make tons of sense as a disapproving remark — I listened to the track after she told me that, and the singer meant that line in a good way, in a GREAT way, it’s a_ love song_, but Abby said I just don’t get this thing called recontextualization). _However_, it’s always for a positive cause. Or mostly for a good cause.

Anyway, the point is that I’m not often embarrassed by my boundary-crossing.

And yet.

I’d crossed a boundary. And, boy, I wasn’t feeling too enthusiastic about that.

See, that’s not how Cary and I _ work. _And that was difficult for me to admit because, most of the time, I didn’t even want to deal with there being a “Cary and I” entity. There was, though, and we had rules. Those rules changed, sure. For a while, it wasn’t acceptable to ask for Cary’s help in breaking into lockers (again, good cause), and then it was. It wasn’t acceptable to grab his arm and take him to a BSC meeting so we could all urgently discuss the matter of an international thief, to think we should ask him to be part of a revenge scheme against Cokie Mason, to admit I didn’t want him to hate me, to laugh with him in a corner of a Christmas party, and then it was and it was and it was. And now we talked, and we did things, and, hey, that afternoon study session? New in itself.

Still, there was a way to deny all that. Do you get it? No? Okay, let’s go with examples.

Acceptable: an investigation taking us to the attic. There would’ve probably been other people around, too, and isn’t that a cheering picture? All of us, running up and up, then rummaging through boxes. Some of us would attempt to be witty, and I’d say, “guys, this is serious. We need to find the [whatever]!” Then I’d find IT, we’d go running somewhere else, case closed. Maybe a celebration at the Rosebud.

Acceptable: Cary comes to my house with a clue. Or for another school project! Partners for a third time! And I’m up in the attic for some reason. Sam’s the one who lets Cary in, and because he’s Sam, he says, oh, go ahead, and would you like this white sheet or how about this werewolf mask? And Cary would find that reception delightful, but I _ think _he wouldn’t try to give me a fright. Surprises that have been thought out by someone else aren’t as fun to him. So maybe he would announce himself, and there would we be, talking in the attic. A reverse scenario would also be acceptable, by the way. That is, I go to Cary’s house with a clue and so on and so forth. No idea how his attic looks, so that could very well be an enriching experience

Not acceptable: saying “come to my attic.” No pressing reason (Ben Brewer is NOT a pressing reason). Just, hey, let’s hang out! Good grief. What was that?

Anyhow, somewhere in that jumble of thoughts I decided I wasn’t gonna let Cary know I knew I’d messed up. Standing there on the porch, I looked _ right _into his eyes with all resolution I could gather. To be honest, I suspect I overdid it. Just a tad little bit. Probably enough to appear slightly unhinged. Like I was planning to take Cary to that dusty place, stab him in the heart, and hide his corpse inside Old Hickory's unearthed coffin.

He nodded.

"That sounds fun,” he said.

I kept _ looking _.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” I said. Then, “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“You know. Your face.”

"Done before I was born, I'm afraid."

“_Stop doing it_!”

“Hey, if you want to do this, then I must say that you’re the one whose face’s doing some pretty unnerving things right now.”

“No, I’m just looking at you.”

“Likewise. But will we ever recover?"

“_Stop_.”

He wasn’t doing anything, and that was the trouble. Eyebrows? Under control. Smirk? Absent. A general air of mischief? Nope. Even when we had serious conversations, his eyes still… I don’t know.

“I didn’t want to annoy you,” he said.

“What?”

_ “_I didn’t want to annoy you. No offense, Kristy, but you’re pretty weird about my face.”

I was.

“I’m not,” I said.

“So,” he continued, ignoring me, “I didn’t want to annoy you. With the eyebrows. Because I didn’t want you to think I was mocking you. Or whatever. I want to see your attic."

Silence.

“See you later, then.”

“Sure,” I said.

After a few steps, he turned around and raised one of his eyebrows at me.

Was that our new routine? I said something odd, he accepted it, I was doubtful and frankly unsettled, he reassured me, I felt satisfied in some confusingly goofy way? NO. Cary was winning, that was clear. What game was that, though? Was it going to end with him pushing me into a ditch? NO. I was gonna push him into a ditch! NO. No ditches, Kristy.

"What ditch?" said Stacey. Had I been thinking out loud?

"No ditches," I said.

"O-kay," said Stacey. "Dues, everyone?"

Groans.

Maybe I should say something _really_ odd. Nothing he could've taken in stride. Like, "Cary, let's build a tunnel!" What would he say to that? _Lead the way, Kristy_? Or maybe he'd already built one. Maybe he'd already built many, many of them! Maybe he wasn't even living with his family anymore — maybe he'd had a fight with his parents and moved into the tunnels. God, I should do something about that. I didn't want him to live in a tunnel at all.

There were some new posters on the walls as I walked into school that morning.

Hmmmmm.

Hm!

I found Cary. The halls weren't crowded yet, but I still gestured toward an empty classroom. He followed, apparently much entertained.

"Let's go to the dance," I said once when we were inside.

There was nothing graceful about what those eyebrows did.

Hah.

"It's fine if you don't feel like it," I said, smiling. "Even thought it's my ultimate dream."

His eyes narrowed.

Could he accept that? Nope. I kept smiling, a picture of innocence.

"Yeah, let's do that," he said.

GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"No," I blurted out, incoherently. Look, I wanted to win (what?), but I wasn't about go to a school event with Cary.

Then _he_ was smiling!

GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"You're right, it _does_ seem like a waste to spend hours in a stuffy gym when the weather's been so pleasant," he said.

I waited. At his mercy. Pathetic, Kristy.

"What about our buddies, the Livingstons? Maybe a little stroll around the place? Maybe some artistic endeavors?"

"No! They're former clients, for goodness' sake. What's wrong with you?" I couldn't bear that grin. Anyway, I just couldn't get out of it. I wasn't let gonna him win (what?). "Maybe we could knock on their door and leave?"

"Is that one of Kristy's great ideas?"

"We could knock really hard."

And then the bell rang.

"Next Friday, then?" he said.'

"Why wait? It doesn't really need to be at the night of the dance."

"Oh, anticipation's half the fun."

"Whatever."

We were supposed to meet in a secluded spot in Miller's Park. I was sitting on a bench, looking into this knapsack I'd brought with me. A cracked pair of sunglasses. A silk red scarf whose origin I couldn't recall. A baseball cap that wasn't part of my regular selection. A tattered, suspiciously-stained picnic blanket. Somebody plopped down next to me, and I almost screamed.

"Hey," Cary said.

"Hey."

"Ready to go?"

"Dying to go."

I'd decided earlier we weren't taking our bikes since those could be too recognizable. Cary had replied we were too recognizable ourselves. A shockingly flippant remark coming from a so-called troublemaking expert. Anyway, I had enough props for both of us.

It took a long time to get to the Livingstons. We kept getting distracted. There was Ambrose's Sawmill, which had been an important location in a past BSC mystery. After we'd solved it, we got this letter from the mayor's office saying that the area surrounding the mill was going to be renamed Baby-sitters Walk! That'd been gratifying... for all the thirty seconds we hadn't been aware that it was one of Cary's jokes.

I guess he was thinking about that, too.

"Maybe they should've done it," he said.

"I _know_!"

We bought Popsicles.

And yes, we reached the Livingstons' neighborhood. And then their street. I put on the glasses, tied the scarf under my chin, and threw the blanket and the hat at Cary. Then I decided I wanted the blanket, and gave him the glasses.

"Let's go," I said.

I led him toward a bush, and crouched down behind it. There was a thick line of trees on the other side. A decent hideaway.

"You _are_ aware that it's not against the law to knock on doors, right?"

"Get down!"

He did.

I started laughing.

"I don't even _know_ if there's anyone in the house. I mean, there were, what, three sisters, and two of them didn't live here, and the other one was supposed to be moving soon or something, and the secret brother —"

"Secret brother?"

"Oh, there was a secret brother. It was a whole thing. He was, hmm, supposed to be dead."

"You know, Kristy, storytelling might not be your strongest suit."

"Ugh. So, what are we doing? I go knock? You go knock? We go knock? Should we have a code?"

"Do they have a pool? It's hot."

"Stop. And you're not wearing the glasses."

"To be fair, they're pretty horrible."

We heard something, then. I threw the blanket (I still hadn't decided what to do with it) over our heads.

"The Door-Knocking Police," Cary whispered.

I kissed him.

Briefly.

I got out from under the blanket and stood up.

He did the same.

I won (what?)!

Somewhere a dog barked, and we got down again.

Cary's hand was on my right foot.

He kissed me.

Things got intense. The scarf was gone, the glasses met an undignified demise under my butt. Leaves in hair. It occurred to me that we might be breaking a real law, so I tried to keep it vertical. But not sitting _too_ upright because somebody might spot our heads, I reasoned.

Then we were in questionable positions again.

At some point, his lips were on my hands, a sudden interest in palms and knuckles and wrists, and weirdly that struck me as hilarious. I gave this crazy chuckle, and he looked at me, smiling, not offended. I touched his hair for no particular reason. I did that slowly, and, for a second there, felt extremely goofy. Our activities had been pretty frenzied for the last minute, and this was different. But then he was caressing my cheek, unhurried, too.

I kissed and kissed him. Not too much technique, but it probably got the point across. I kinda wanted to confirm those performance thoughts, but mid-makeout surveys are complicated. Anyway, both of us seemed pretty enthusiastic.

And uncool. Hey, I was aware_ I_ wasn't super skilled when it came to that stuff, but it was a little satisfying to witness Cary not being at all smooth either. Haha! Take that, Cary! Then I was on my back, then he was on his back, just rolling around in someone's property on the town's fanciest street. I guess it could've been worse. We could've been on a hill, kissing and rolling down toward death.

Nah, we wouldn't have died. We would've found a way. And a famous painting that had been stolen ages ago.

And then.

I noticed my watch. Time. Right then, I seriously couldn't even remember what I'd told my mom before leaving, only that it hadn't been an actual lie. Hmm. Should head home soon. Cary. Hm. Watch. Good thing I had all those turtlenecks! Hmmm. Watch. Cary had stolen that watch once, and now

!

I got up, flushed, breathless, stupid.

I'd been kissing Cary!

That might not come as a shock to you.

"Hey," he said in the dark.

"I have to go. Now."

"Okay."

I was busy.

High school softball season! Another trip to Washington as a member of the debate team! So many responsibilities! I love responsibilities!

Seriously, I was busy.

Cary got punched in the face. To be fair, it happened before homeroom. He was probably still sleepy, so avoiding a hit was harder than usual. Anyway, I was opening my locker, and Cary was (unbeknownst to me) opening his, and I noticed this older boy walk by, and then I heard_ ARE YOU CARY RETLIN_, and I went around a corner (holding my Spanish dictionary), saw the post-punch scene taking place at the very end of the hall (Cary was on the floor), threw the dictionary at the guy's shoulder (unnecessary, given that he appeared to be quite done with the matter, but I wasn't thinking at all) while running toward them, slipped on a puddle (what was _that_?) before achieving that goal. Emily Bernstein got out of the school paper office in time to see three fallen students (the guy was moaning, and I started to feel bad, and, even worse, to think).

We got suspended. Well, not Emily Bernstein. Mary Anne told me later that Emily was frustrated because she was unable to find out what Cary's offense — the thing that made Brandon Massey, senior, furious — had been. I had no idea, either. Cary and I hadn't been talking much lately.

When I returned to school, there was a Polly's Fine Candy gift certificate in my locker, a tiny red MK scrawled at the bottom (that's for Mischief Knights, a not-really-mysterious group that had been on hiatus for some time, and whose leader — possibly the one remaining member? — still wasn't back). It was so stupid I laughed.

**Summer**

We went to Shadow Lake (that was me and mom and Watson and Charlie-back-from-college and Sam and David Michael and Karen and Andrew and Emily Michelle and a bunch of cousins and uncles and aunts — Nannie had a music festival to attend), the Alps (that was me and Abby, thanks to a cereal contest), a nameless island (that was me and Abby and Mallory-back-from-school and Dawn-back-from-California and Claudia, the latter two finding it hard to accept that they were once again stranded somewhere off the coast of Connecticut).

I started writing Cary an email, but I didn't really know what to say. I thought about it at Shadow Lake, stared at a blank screen in the Alps (the inn's internet connection wasn't great, so that was a one-time thing), and even tried to write a draft in the sand of the island (when everybody else was sleeping and I'd just had this horrible dream about Louie).

When I was home again, following many a family and best-friend reunion on a merry dock, I checked my inbox.

**FROM**: DominionOfLight

**SUBJECT**: How's life?

**TIME**: 1:13:57 A.M.

(Blank)_  
_

**FROM**: DominionOfLight

**SUBJECT**: RE: How's life?

**TIME**: 1:16:41 A.M.

_(This is Cary.)_

_I don't know if you know, but I'm at my grandparents'. In Oak Hill.  
_

**FROM**: DominionOfLight

**SUBJECT**: RE: RE: How's life?

**TIME**: 9:22:10 A.M.

_Considering Alan has just informed me that you're missing at sea, this subject line might prove tasteless._

That was four days ago. I meant to tell him I was fine (which I was pretty sure he knew by then — not to brag, but there'd been some energetic media coverage). Just saying that was sort of rude, though. I put it off.

That evening, we had a celebratory dinner, and then a celebratory gathering in the backyard. And then I slipped away, my head full of ridiculousness. Back inside, in my bedroom, I typed,

_Hey. I'm fine! Life's great!_

Terrible. Okay, I'd edit that later.

_Yup, I knew you were at your grandparents'. Mary Anne told me. I hope you're having fun!_

Dire. That would have to be corrected, too.

_Do you like stickers? When I was in Switzerland,_

Snobby?

_Do you like stickers? A while ago, I was in a stationery store (always soothing) and saw this neat bird-themed sticker sheet. It reminded me of you. So I got it. They're tropical birds, so that's a bit different from what you see every day. Anyway, later, when I was getting everyone souvenirs (this was during my cereal trip with Abby), I realized that your sticker sheet wasn't too representative (also, it was cheaper than the tiniest keychain), but I don't think you care about that. In the airport bookstore, there was this art book that showed all those old magic posters (you know, like Houdini's?) and that made me think of you, too, but it was really expensive and my travel money had run out.  
_

_I still have some fancy chocolate (hidden away, big family, etc), though, if you want that. I came back at the beginning of the month (that was when MA gave me a thorough Stoneybrook update and told me that you and your family had just left)._

By then, I had decided I wasn't sending him any of that, so I might as well go on.

_Sorry if I acted strangely some time ago. I mean, I don't know if you noticed it, but I think I was avoiding you. And then you started avoiding me too? And I hit that guy? Yeah.  
_

_I didn't want to stop talking to you. I like talking to you, sometimes. I even like when we don't talk but we're still doing something (I don't even mean kissing, though I did enjoy that a lot). The first time I booby-trapped my (SMS) locker because of you, I was happy. I didn't notice that, then, but hey, looking back? Happy. In a maniacal, evil-movie-scientist way, but still. Another thing I didn't notice (or didn't want to reflect on) was that I wasn't only doing all that stuff because of you, I was also doing it FOR YOU. Do you get it? I mean that it wasn't just like "let me teach Cary a lesson" (which you haven't learned) or "haha it's gonna be hilarious when he opens it and..." (I was right). It was all that, obviously, but also I KNEW you'd appreciate the set-up. That new big padlock, even the surprise inside. I wanted I want to give you "complications that make life more interesting." To use your terms. It's embarrassing, but it's true.  
_

_Hey, when you think about it, we really only started (kind of) acknowledging each other after you stole my watch. That's weird. And we really only started (actually?) talking after that English assignment, and that process included a battle against censorship, and thinking that you were some kind of cybercriminal exile. That's weird! And we really, REALLY only started talking when you lured me to a boiler room. THAT'S WEIRD!!!  
_

_And what does all of that mean? That you're a weirdo. That I am, occasionally, a weirdo. That I enjoy when we're weirdos together? But maybe sometimes that gets out of control. I get overwhelmed, I wonder what we are, I remember the way we used to be and I get confused. And that may not even be your fault. It's hard to admit that.  
_

_You know what else's weird? Look up. I asked if you like stickers. If you don't like stickers, your issues are way more serious than I've imagined. That would be revolting._

_So, I don't know what I'm talking about and you're not gonna see this blah blah blah blah but what I mean is blah blah blah I don't know. Did you think I was dead? What was that like? I like your hair999999nqssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssddddddddd_

That was Pumpkin, Karen's cat. No, the email wasn't accidentally sent.

Then the phone rang, and I got up to pick up my extension. Yes, I closed the browser. It wasn't gonna happen. Stop.

"Hello?" I hoped it was a reporter. I had so many angles for a story, you wouldn't believe it.

"Hey," Cary said.

"Hey!" I said as I dove under the computer desk (don't ask, I don't get it either).

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, yeah, totally. Tanned. Everyone else's fine, too. I was gonna, uh, I was replying to your email."

"That's good. About all of you being fine." Pause. "I saw you earlier, but it's nice to hear that from you."

"Thanks. And, um, sorry you were worried. But hey, what channel?"

"What?"

"You saw me earlier. On TV. And yes, I know that's pretty vain, whatever."

"Oh. No, I _saw_ you. I mean, I saw you on TV, too — and after seeing everybody's baby pictures, I gotta say Claudia was the cutest one — but this morning I saw-saw you. Getting off the boat? Lots of hugs going on. Didn't want to barge in."

"Wait. Are you here? In Stoneybrook? You're back, then?"

"One assumes."

"Right."

"Well, I don't want to tire you."

"No worries, I took a nap. Hey, Cary?"

"Yes?"

"Is your family with you? It was a vacation for everyone, right? Your parents, too?"

"God, you're _so_ annoying."

Nobody could see my grin.

"Come on. I could've died."

"No, my family isn't with me, yes, I jumped on a bus because I was worried, and no, there was nothing I could do, so that was useless and stupid. Anyway, the place was crowded and I was bored and I've never liked the neighborhood much."

"Hah," I said.

"Hah," he said.

"I would've done it for you, too."

(I liked to believe I'd have been more effective, though.)

"I know. Well, not if you were on one of your international trips. Let's not get too crazy."

"I like your hair," I said.

**Fall**

In Ben Brewer's attic, we talked about fried dandelions.

Cary wondered if Ben had some influence on my psyche. A potentially worthy angle, he said, for his_ Kristin Amanda Thomas, A Life: Part 2_. I had to discourage that line. In my heart of hearts, in days past, I'd admitted to myself that I was the least likely BSC member to possess the gift of sensing spirits (if there are spirits, and I don't think that's the case, but sometimes you wonder) (however, there was this time when the BSC tried to hold a séance, and I must say I played the channeler part with a lot of attitude). I just wasn't the _type._ Can you see me with a ghost? Not romantically. Just hanging out with one, exchanging ideas. Think about it.

I told Cary all that. And, look, I thought I was being sort of brave. I mean, there I was plainly saying, here's a thing I don't believe I'm good at! Okay, here's a thing that I'm probably not good at and _that's probably not a thing_. Still. Mature.

Cary said that sometimes, during boring classes where I happened to be present, he looked at me. He knew that I'd be bored, too, and that my thinking-about-other-topics face could always offer him some entertainment. He talked about my serious frowns, how my eyes would suddenly get big ("freaky, occasionally"), a mad chewing of pencils, all deep reflection and brilliant ideas. That was what he _used_ to think, he added. After all, he continued, there I was, revealing that thoughts he'd pegged as presidential had quite likely been ranking-psychic-inclinations-among-my-friends daydreams.

I gave him a Look.

But, he told me consolingly, I was not to worry. It was humanizing, see? Another angle for _KATALP2_.

There was a lull. Then he said that ghosts would be silly not to seek my help. I could be disturbingly efficient. And didn't ghosts always need help? If I weren't seeing them, it was really because there were none around for the time being, Cary concluded.

We were sitting on a trunk, and I stared at my flip-flops. I felt something funny. Probably not ghosts. It was nice.

From time to time, Karen made an appearance, looked around, and screamed before running downstairs. On a couple of occasions, she stayed long enough to serve Cary the usual Morbidda-headless-ghost-aliens dish. He was enthralled.

"Wish things had gone differently for Ben," he said, quietly. Now we were on a moth-eaten rug.

"Me too."

It wasn't funny, being a recluse.

And then I was terrible.

My Ben thoughts turned into Kristy thoughts.

I liked people. Ben had once liked people, right? And that had been one the great things about the BSC. Stoneybrook knew us and we really, really knew Stoneybrook. But for the past year, our activities had become more and more contained. We weren't getting new clients — the number of current members was so low that advertising would've been nonsensical, since there was no way to attend to more demands — and our club became more of a club and less of a business. It wasn't bad, exactly. How could it be? Abby and Jessi even came to meetings at times, now that it was understood that those weren't as tied to baby-sitting appointments. Claudia enjoyed having us, and we loved Claudia's room. We always would.

Could I ever say there was something missing, then?

There was.

And the other complicated fact about the past year, also strangely connected to my vague Kristy-Ben ideas, was that I hadn't made many new friends. Well, not school friends. I'd been visiting the Stoneybrook Manor a lot lately, first for volunteering, and then just for camaraderie. We had GREAT bocce games. But, anyway, new friends my age? That was another matter.

So, I don't know. Maybe I wasn't as outgoing as I'd thought. If I longed for an easy way to connect with my town, if everyone else in my group hadn't had much difficulty at creating high school bonds, then maybe I wasn't that great at people? Or maybe it was an awkward phase. Or something. I wasn't unhappy, though. Usually. I mean, I wasn't going around, like, writing poetry about better days. I was dealing with it. Maybe I was just slower than other people at that dealing stuff.

See, I told you that was terrible. Very me, me, me. There.

I didn't say any of that to Cary. I'd asked him if he wanted to look through some chests and stuff (who brings someone over boxland and then doesn't let them know it's fine to explore?), and he had. So now I watched him handle weird kitchen tools and fairy tale volumes and ribbons with the same care. I decided to get some boxes myself, and was much less reverent, and we started showing each other items. Funny ones, intriguing ones, ones that we weren't sure what to think about.

A gold-framed mirror stood in a corner. I had these glimpses of it as I walked around, and once I even looked into it while Cary was busy. There we were. I made a goofy face, and then I smiled.

That October, my friends and I were followed by doppelgängers. Jessi danced with someone who wasn't there. Stacey saw a house on fire where there was neither fire nor house, and said, "_Again_?" A cult ended thanks to Claudia and Mary Anne. Abby and I watched the gruesome sequel to _Pepperoni Man_. And so on and so forth.

Two days before Halloween, I found a letter in my locker. The envelope said:

_One Clue_

_For One Kristy_

The day before Halloween, I found the seventh of those, just as Cary was hiding it inside a very special cookbook at the Stoneybrook Public Library.

"So late, so _clumsy_," I said. He gave me an eye-roll and a pat on the shoulder before walking away.

On Halloween, the last clue led me to pizza and a century-old local mystery. We ate it, we solved it, and we kissed in an abandoned tool shed.


End file.
